In Which I Ramble Without Real Intent

I have always felt a need to change my appearance. Alter myself somehow, to fit what I feel on the inside. When I was younger, and more insecure, it felt like a mask. When I was 12, I wanted to rid myself of anything that made me - in my own eyes - less desireable, less than the girl that everyone would find acceptable.

I have a confession to make. Since the age of 9, I have been reading girlie magazines. Not the kind with naked people in them, mind you - excepting infrequent ads portraying perfect, hairless bodies with arms hiding the notorious portions of themselves - the kind that told me what to wear, what to say, who to talk to.

The unspoken theme in all of these magazines was one of warning. There were so many rules to abide by, in order to be the perfect girl. I can't believe how many of them still apply in my daily life. I find myself thinking about what I should be wearing, what I should(n't) be eating, and how much more I should be caring about what I look like less and less frequently, but it's still there. You see, even though I've moved beyond the boundaries of honestly caring what They think of me, I still have the guilt over not being perfect.

Perfect being, of course, blond, leggy, tall, skeletal, and boy-crazy. The only one I've seemed to master is the last, and that's always been pretty limited. I can't seem to be crazy over more than one guy at any given time. It's also a huge relief to find out that the guy who makes me the craziest wants to marry me. The added bonus is that he doesn't seem to think I'm all that insane.

I'm not looking to be that "perfect" girl anymore. The only reason I worry about it is because I want to be the best me I can be - both for me and for my fiance. I want him to be able to be proud of me. I know it's silly, as he already (inexplicably) is, but still, the thought is there.

I think I'm going to end this post and move on to the subject I really wanted to talk about. My hair.